


Kinktober Day 20: Pet Play

by WitchOfTheWestCountry



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 05:19:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12358323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry
Summary: Little Pig wasn't always Little Pig. She used to be a very scared and unfortunate woman before Chris Walker found her.





	Kinktober Day 20: Pet Play

**Author's Note:**

> Bittersweet, pre-committed Chris Walker story.

“Little Pig….”

His voice in the darkness - soft and cajoling. Had he had another nightmare?

She stirred herself from the foot of the bed, rubbing her eyes and grunting softly in reply.

She felt him sit up, the bed creaking and caving under his weight, his big hands seeking her out.

She crawled towards him, making little snuffling noises - over the hump of his feet under the covers, onto the soft round swell of his belly.

He scooped her into his arms, hugging her close to him. Such strong arms he had, and they held her tightly as though he were drowning and she was his life preserver.

His face was wet with tears, and she felt a pang of regret. She was meant to be his guardian against nightmares, but she'd failed him.

She nuzzled into his broad chest, trying to comfort him.

He stroked her hair, lying back down with her nestled in the crook of his arm.

She thought he'd go back to sleep, but he spoke into the darkness, gravelly voice made gentle for her.

“I've been bad, Little Pig,” he said, squeezing her. “Very bad….”

She lifted her head. She couldn't see him in the darkness, but he sounded sad.

Chris? Bad? No! He was an Angel of mercy!

She snorted in disagreement, clinging to him loyally.

“I don't know how long it will be before they find out,” he mused. “But you have to promise me you'll hide when they come. I don't want them to find you….”

She shuddered at the thought of what they might do - both to him and to her. She'd been imprisoned before now - regular prison and psychiatric hospital. She'd been abused in both.

“I won't let them take you,” he said. “But you have to help.”

She nodded, tears stinging her eyes, burying her face in his shoulder.

“I love you, Little Pig,” he said.

 

The shouting. The needles. The filth. The rapes - so many rapes.

She wasn't human. They told her that often, reinforcing it with beatings and starvation, making her sleep on cold floors naked. Made her eat from a trough alongside many other women who weren't human.

The Murkoff Corporation owned her. They owned the buildings she was housed in, and everyone in it. Jeremy Blaire had told her that once.

He was a good-looking, smartly dressed man with a silver tongue, but he was also the Devil. She knew that now. He’d seemed kind at first, but that was all a front.

He'd visited the hospital where she'd been committed, doing the rounds he did every six months, scrutinising security measures, keeping track of the inmates. She'd been clothed for once - a ratty dress taken from a box of old clothes that was far too big for her. He'd seen her - cold and hungry and dirty. He'd spoken to her. Pushed her hair out of her face, chucked her under the chin. Asked her name. She didn't know her name and she had felt stupid. But not long after he'd left the hall in which they were all lined up to be presented to him she'd been taken away, put in a bath and scrubbed till she was pink, her hair washed. She'd been given a new dress - one that fitted and had flowers on! Then she'd been taken to Mr Blaire’s office and given treats - cookies and candy and ice cream. Mr Blaire had told her she was pretty and she'd blushed and giggled.

She hated herself for that now.

He told her he wanted to take her home. Look after her. Buy her lots of pretty dresses. Would she like that?

Oh, yes yes yes!

Mr Blaire had seemed pleased. He'd sat her on his knee. Then he'd put his hand up her dress….

She'd let him. She'd let him do whatever he wanted - and he wanted to do a lot. Some of it had hurt, but it would be worth it to get out.

Except she hadn't.

After he'd finished with her she'd been taken back to her cell, sore and with spunk oozing out of every orifice, her nice new dress stripped from her, back to the same treatment.

She hated Jeremy Blaire.

 

The hospital had been closed down. She thought they'd move her somewhere else, but they hadn't.

They'd given her some money, a little bag of toiletries, a set of old clothes that didn't fit, and pushed her out into the streets with an address for a hostel clutched in her hand.

She'd been shut up for so long she didn't know how to behave any more, and the outside world was big and scary.

She went to the address they'd given her and the man who ran it said he'd give her a room if she'd give him a blow job. She didn't want to sleep on the streets, so she'd done it.

It turned out there weren't any rooms.

She went to other places, but they'd taken one look at her, with her pale skin and big hollow eyes and ill-fitting clothes and told her to leave. One man had chased her from the building with a broom.

They knew the Murkoff patients were out and wanted no part of them.

 

She found an old warehouse building with its windows boarded up and a door at the back chocked open.

There were people living there - if you could call it living. They huddled round fires and heated stuff in spoons before injecting it.

She'd found a quiet corner to stay, but her first night there two men had beaten her and stolen her meagre belongings. She didn't mind too much, though: At least they hadn't wanted sex.

She existed there for months, finally forming a relationship of sorts with one of the addicts who’d taken a shine to her. She became one of them, scrabbling for scraps, stealing money for drugs, whoring herself sometimes. Making ends meet, as her mother had always said.

Mother. She remembered mother. A kind woman with a sweet face who hadn't come home one day. A man called Eddie Gluskin had murdered Mother.

That's when she'd been put into foster care. That's when her ordeal had begun.

 

A raid one night had put paid to her home in the old building: Not the police, but teenaged boys wearing masks and carrying baseball bats.

They wore nice clothes and called them scum as they'd driven them out. Some of her friends had been killed. She'd escaped by hiding in a dumpster.

She hadn't gone back, too scared it might happen again.

 

She'd gotten a pimp, a man who sold her for a few dollars an hour and beat her when she disobeyed, but he had an endless supply of the sweet stuff to put in her veins, and while she had that she wanted nothing more.

He sold her for an entire night to a group of businessmen who'd gang-banged her in the back of a limousine then dumped her in the gutter outside a bar, bruised and bloody. Unable to move and eventually sick from withdrawal she'd lain there for an eternity until a man had come out of the bar and instead of stepping over her like the others had picked her up and taken her away.

His name was Chris Walker.

 

She'd hated him at first.

He refused to get her what her body craved, locking her in a room, letting her sweat and suffer and scream out her addiction through the hallucinations and grinding cramps.

He'd tried to feed her, but she'd knocked the plates from his hands, hit him with her balled fists, called him every name she knew.

He never hit her back: He'd clean up the mess and leave her, returning a few hours later to try again.

It took a long time, but she'd eventually succumbed to his care, allowing him to spoon feed her chicken soup with noodles, propped up by one of his massive arms.

He’d bathed her, putting her in a big tub full of bubbles, washing her hair with his big, scarred hands, drying her in a towel.

He’d put her to bed, tucking her in under clean sheets, and she thought he'd fuck her. She would have let him. But he hadn't.

He woke her in the morning with breakfast, and she'd tried to  _ make _ him fuck her.

He'd pushed her away, gentle yet firm, as she scrabbled at his fly, getting angry when she'd persevered. But he still hadn't hit her.

Weeks went by: She kept trying. If he didn't fuck her, there must have been something wrong with her - he didn't like her, he thought she was crazy or ugly.

It took her a long time to realise the reason he wouldn't was because there  _ wasn't  _ something wrong with her. It was because he liked her.

 

She woke one night to hear him moaning in his sleep: Nightmares of his time in Afghanistan. He'd told her about his bad dreams and about his tour of duty. Terrible things. Things that would drive a lesser man insane.

He'd been clutching the stuffed pig he loved so much, and in his trauma he’d ripped it's head off, torn out its stuffing, shredded it.

She knew he’d be full of anguish when he realised what he'd done, so she'd hidden it to mend it when she could, and the next day she'd gone out with the money he'd given her and made some purchases.

That night when he'd gone to bed and was looking for Little Pig, she'd appeared at his bedside, naked and pink, with a latex pig snout glued to her face, the little curled tail affixed to the butt plug planted deep inside her, and at that moment the nameless girl had become Little Pig.

 

He cherished her. She slept in his bed every night, devoted to him, sometimes nestled at his feet, sometimes cradled in his arms. She kept the bad dreams at bay.

She loved him. He had saved her, now she would save him.

She spoke to him in grunts and snuffles and oinks, ate from a clean trough he'd made her that he only put good food into: No slops or scraps for this little pig.

Their relationship blurred in his mind: Sometimes she was the little stuffed pig he cuddled at night, sometimes the woman he had rescued and nursed back to health.

Either was fine with her: As the toy he nurtured and cuddled her; as the woman, nurtured and loved.

He read  _ The Sheep Pig  _ by Dick King Smith and gave her a buttermilk bath, taking her out afterwards and licking clean every crevice. 

He fattened her up, hand-feeding her, filling out her starved form and making her plump and happy. He loved the little rolls of flesh she had now: He would squeeze her rump to reassure himself she was healthy, run his hands down her flanks, say “That'll do, pig”.

 

He never fucked her. That was not what he did. It was gentle and caring and cherishing, nothing like what she'd been used to. It never hurt, and she learned to crave it - the same way she'd craved the drugs before, but far less damaging. To feel his hands on her, to feel the stiff rod of his prick in her - it was like she'd died that day in the gutter and been allowed into heaven.

He was her saviour, her protector, her benefactor. Her lover and her master. Her weakened soldier in need of the distraction only she could give. She was his and he was hers.

 

And now it was all under threat.

She hadn't spoken in words to him since she'd donned the snout, and now words were hard to find when she needed them. He was vulnerable, needing his Little Pig more than ever, but she didn't know how to comfort him.

She struggled to speak, but she hadn't spoken in the longest time. She didn't even know her name, other than Little Pig.

He seemed to feel her dilemma, and snuggled her ever closer.

“Don't fret, Little Pig,” he told her. “I won't let them hurt you. I'd take a bullet for you!”

She believed him.

She wriggled in his embrace. She'd do anything for Chris. The men where he worked called him Strongfat, and he hated it. She wished she could put an end to everything for him - take him away to a nice farm miles from nowhere where she could run free in the fields and roll in mud, where he could let the cares of the world drift away and only have to worry about them and their well-being.

He stroked her hair some more, let his hand touch her breast. She shivered under his touch like she always did, yearning for whatever he could give at that time.

“Little Pig…” he murmured, and she felt herself melt at the name.

He lifted her over him: She was small for all her new plumpness, and her weight was nothing to his strong arms. He fitted her spread legs over his belly, seated her there, taking her aching breasts in his hands.

Her nipples sprang to attention, tingling as he tweaked them. He liked to suckle them, be a little piglet to her Little Pig. It always made her wet, made her creamy and ready. She leaned down, putting the tips of her breasts in his face, and grunted as he took one into his mouth. Her piggy pussy was damp against his stomach, leaking her residue onto the matt of his pubic hair. If she was a Pig he was a big hairy bear, or a wolf, that could eat little piggies if he chose.

She snorted her pleasure as he rolled his tongue over her nipple. If he chose to eat this piggy he'd be welcome. Eat her right up. He'd shown her how sweet it could be. How one could want that.

His prick was a hard bar against her ass and she wriggled against it, her little tail tickling him.

He sighed through his mouthful of teat, cupping the chubby mounds of her buttocks and kneading them.

She eased herself back, pussy touching his dick. It throbbed against her, Chris’s Little Soldier - but it wasn't very little. She slid herself over it, mounting the ridge, snug between her lips. She rubbed herself on it, coating it with her cream.

Chris turned, heaving her off him, rolling her onto her belly. He stroked her back, hunched over her, dick laid between her buttocks alongside her curly piggy tail. Little Pig liked that. It made her hot and wanton, made her arch her back and push against him.

His big hand was over her face, twining with the wet tendrils of hair that had fallen over it, pushing his fingers into her mouth.

She gulped on them, savouring  the salty tang of his skin, nipping them with her small teeth.

“Are you ready, Little Pig?” he asked, like that was a question that needed asking.

She was always ready.

By way of reply she pushed back, lifting her ass, showing him how ready she was. He took her hips in a gentle grip, raising her onto her knees, pulling her back to fit her over his cock. She groaned as he went in, the big rounded head easing into her pussy with a pop, stretching her around it. The thick meat felt good in there. She wriggled on it happily, laying her face in her folded arms. She knew he was all the way in when the soft swell of his belly brushed her tail, his tree trunk thighs slotted between her dainty spread ones. The tip found some secret place in her it always did, one only he had found, and it made her squirm.

He started to rock his hips back and forth, pulling out of her and plunging back in, probing deep inside her. He played with her, tugging on her tail, tickling the slippery button between her lips, squeezing her heavy breasts where they swung beneath her. She grunted, pushing back onto him, feeling him fill her.

Little Pig didn't have to do anything: Chris did it all. He knew how to please her.

She bit down on her lip as he went harder, each slick pump taking both of them closer, her cunt starting to quiver around its portion of cock. His hand went under her belly, big fingers rubbing her little clit, hard callouses against soft flesh. His belly slapped her ass, loving spanks that made her pant and clench her muscles.

“Ohhh, Little Pig,” he growled, the Big Bad Wolf battering at her door as he huffed and he puffed.

She squealed as she came, tail shaking, pussy pulsing. He never finished until she'd cum, and he did so now, hot seed spilling into her, basting her from the inside.

He leaned forward, panting, hugging her against him, breath scalding her back.

“That'll do, Pig,” he told her. “That'll do.”


End file.
